THE JACK REACHER FILES: THE GIRL FROM THE WRONG SIDE OF CORDIAL (with Bonus Thriller THE BLOOD NOTEBOOKS)

by Jude Hardin

  “Tinted windows?”

  “That’s me.”

  “There’s not another one like it parked nearby?”

  “No. I’m all alone here. It’s kind of creepy.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” Kei said.

  He clicked off. Officer Cooper was talking with a woman who’d walked in while Kei was on the phone. Something about some neighbors playing their music too loud. Kei slipped out the door, got back into his car and drove to the storage facility.

  Kim Hutchins was there waiting for him. She climbed out of her car, introduced herself, grabbed an electronic IV pump and some other supplies and followed Kei inside. She spent about ten minutes explaining some things Kei already knew, and then she programmed his ID number into the pump and hooked up his medicine. She waited there somewhat awkwardly until it was finished, making small talk to pass the time, too polite to ask Kei about his current living conditions. She was a nice young lady. Very professional and well mannered. Kei demonstrated his proficiency at disconnecting the tubing and flushing the line with saline, and then he and Kim ended up walking out to the parking lot together.

  “You did really well,” she said.

  “Thanks. You weren’t riding around in a residential neighborhood a while ago, were you?”

  “Not unless it was the one I live in. You were my only patient today.”

  “You didn’t see that Camry parked over there almost hit a school bus about an hour ago?”

  She shook her head. “No, it wasn’t me. Anyway, I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re finger’s looking good, by the way.”

  She climbed into her car and started the engine and drove away.

  Light blue four-door with tinted windows. There were probably hundreds of them driving around town, Kei thought. Or thousands. It was a common body style and a popular color.

  Which meant that the police were going to have a hard time finding the person who had been following Kei. In fact, without a license plate number there was probably no point in even trying. There were just too many cars that fit the description.

  Kei started his Camry and headed out. The seats were still a little damp from the rain. He felt the moisture seeping up into the back of his pants. At least the people trying to kill him didn’t know where he lived, he thought. Or maybe they did know, but were smart enough not to show up there in broad daylight. Kei considered that possibility as he dutifully made his way toward his place of employment.

  9

  Kei usually told people that he was a bartender, but that wasn’t exactly the truth. Nobody was going to let an ex-con handle liquor and money, not right away anyway, so they had Kei doing all the crummy little side chores for minimum wage while the real bartenders smiled and chatted up the customers and raked in the tips.

  Kei ended up clocking in five minutes late, which earned him a trip to the manager’s office.

  “Second time this week,” Harold said. “You have a problem getting to work on time?”

  Harold Wells had some kind of accounting certificate from a business school in a cheap frame over his desk, and he liked to refer to it at every opportunity, reminding people who didn’t know any better that he was a college graduate and they weren’t.

  “Sorry,” Kei said. “I’ll try to do better from now on.”

  “Make sure you do. And where’s your uniform?”

  “I didn’t have time to wash clothes this afternoon.”

  Harold sat there nervously tapping the desk with the eraser end of a wooden pencil. “I need you here on time,” he said. “And I need you dressed and ready to work when you walk in the door.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harold reached into a cardboard box behind his desk, pulled out a brand new red polo with DP’s Barbecue embroidered on the left upper side. Kei owned two of them already, and they’d cost him twenty-five dollars apiece.

  Harold tossed the shirt to Kei. “I’ll just take it out of your check,” he said.

  “This is an extra-large. I wear double XL.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers. That’s all we have until the new order comes in. Maybe you’ll remember to do your laundry next time.”

  “It’s going to be too tight. And too short.”

  “Hey, if you don’t want to work tonight, then clock out and go home. Otherwise, put the shirt on and get busy.”

  Kei walked out of the office and into the bartenders’ station, a cramped little space with tiered shelves on the back wall and a triple stainless steel sink under the counter. Beer cooler, wine rack, ice bins. Miscellaneous supplies lying around, nothing ever in the same place twice.

  The lounge on the other side of the service counter was about the size of a trolley car. Four small tables against each wall and four stools that scooted up to the bar. It didn’t get a lot of business unless there was a wait for tables in the dining room.

  Tonight there was a wait.

  Desmond Stievers was working behind the bar, and he didn’t look happy.

  “Where have you been?” he said.

  “Just running a little late tonight,” Kei said.

  “I’m in the weeds. I need ice, and I need beer from the walk-in.”

  “I’ll get on it as soon as I change my shirt.”

  “Forget about that. I need the stuff now.”

  “All right.”

  Kei set the shirt on one of the back shelves and hustled on over to the walk-in. He grabbed two cases of beer, brought them back and loaded them into the cooler, made several trips until he figured they were in good shape for the night.

  Then he went for some ice.

  The cooking line was behind a long stainless steel counter, and the ice machine was nestled into the space in front of that. Heat from the kitchen and from the machine’s exhaust spilled out into the narrow walkway, and the servers were always hurrying by on their way to pick up food from the line or drinks from the bar. Kei had seen more than one loaded tray of dinner plates go crashing to the floor when the person scooping buckets of ice rose abruptly and collided with the person trying to get the orders out to the dining room. It was a terrible place to put the ice machine. Kei had brought the issue to Harold’s attention several times, and his answer was always the same: just deal with it.

  So Kei was just dealing with it, leaning over and sweating and trying to pay attention at all times to what was going on behind him. He filled two buckets and carried them to the bar and emptied them into the bins.

  Standing room only in the lounge. Desmond was going nuts. Kei could see that he was way behind.

  “I need garnishes,” Desmond said. “Lime wedges, oranges, pineapples, everything.”

  Kei grabbed a cutting board and a knife and some fruit out of the refrigerator, stood at the end of the sink and started slicing.

  “They scheduled you by yourself tonight?” Kei said.

  “I’m always by myself on Wednesday. It’s never this busy.”

  “Maybe Harold could come back here and give you a hand.”

  “Have you ever known that to happen? Anyway, he’s out in the dining room seating customers.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, think you could start grabbing some tickets and working the service bar while I handle the lounge?”

  “I’m not allowed to touch any alcohol,” Kei said. “You know that.”

  “Come on, man. Just this one time. I’ll take full responsibility.”

  Kei pared the ends off a lime, sliced it in half, cut six wedges and dumped them into the garnish tray.

  “You trying to get me fired or something?” he said.

  “Please. Just for thirty minutes or so.”

  Kei threw the knife into the sink. “All right. But I might not know how to make all the drinks.”

  “Just let me know if you need any help.”

  But Kei didn’t need any help. He made daiquiris and margaritas and whiskey sours—all kinds of thing
s he’d learned from watching the other guys—and he uncapped two or three cases of beer bottles and poured two or three gallons of wine.

  He was getting into it, enjoying the adrenaline rush. Like walking a tightrope, juggling torches, and spinning plates on your head all at the same time. A three-ring circus with too much to do and too little time. Almost as crazy as the ER had been some nights, back when Kei was still practicing medicine.

  When things finally settled down enough to take a breather, Desmond gave Kei a fist pump and said, “You did good, man.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Really. It was a big help. I owe you a favor.”

  Kei grabbed a towel and started wiping down the bar.

  “Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you about,” he said.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I need a gun.”

  “A gun?” Desmond said. “What for?”

  “Protection. Someone took a shot at me the other day.”

  “You know who it was?”

  “No, but there was a car following me around this afternoon. I have to assume—”

  “Look, if someone was really trying to kill you, then you’d probably be dead already. Know what I mean? It’s not like you’re hard to find or anything. Someone could walk right into the lounge here and pop one in your forehead before you could blink.”

  “They wouldn’t want to do it in such a public place,” Kei said.

  He told Desmond about his date with Anna, about her quitting her job and moving away from her apartment, and about the old man at the hospital.

  “Have you gone to the cops about this?” Desmond said.

  “Yeah. They’re not doing anything. That’s why I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands.”

  “You’re going to be in a lot of trouble if you get caught with a gun.”

  “I know.”

  Desmond grabbed a matchbook from a bowl on the bar, flipped it open and wrote a phone number on the inside of it.

  “This guy can get you pretty much whatever you want,” he said. “He keeps late hours. You can call him after work if you want to. Just tell him I sent you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. I think I’m going to be okay back here for now. You better go ahead and put your work shirt on before Harold sees you.”

  Kei walked back to the employees’ restroom and changed into the shirt that was too small for him. He finished his shift, clocked out and called the number Desmond had given him. An hour later he was the proud owner of a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol, a Colt MK IV with a seven-round magazine. Small and lightweight, easy to conceal.

  Now he needed to find a new place to live.

  10

  Kei didn’t want to spend another night in the storage unit, even with his new weapon for protection. If someone was trying to kill him—and he was pretty sure that someone was—then the storage facility would be a good place to do it. There was nobody around, especially at night, so an assassin could sneak in and take care of business and be gone before anyone knew what had happened. There were security cameras mounted outside, but a ski mask would take care of that problem.

  Kei knew that he wouldn’t be able to stay at his current location, but his options on alternatives were severely limited. He figured a quick background check would scare off most of the property owners and leasing agents in town, and even if someone did decide to give him a chance, it might take weeks to secure a move-in date.

  He would probably be dead by then. He needed a new place now.

  He was trying to think of someone at work who might be able to help, and then it hit him: Anna’s apartment. Nobody would expect him to be living there. He’d been shot at in the parking lot. It was probably the least likely place on the planet for him to choose as a residence, and therefore it was the best place. He wasn’t sure he could afford it, and he didn’t know if the McFaddens would rent to him or not, but he decided to give it a try.

  He drove to the complex, slept in the car for a few hours, rang the doorbell a little after eight.

  The couple came to the door together again.

  “Can I help you?” Mrs. McFadden said.

  Kei got right to the point. “I would like to rent the apartment Anna Parks was staying in,” he said.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. We have several people on a waiting list. Anyway, that unit’s a mess. It’s going to need to be cleaned and painted, and we’re going to have to put new carpet down. It’ll be at least a month before it’s even available.”

  “I’ll take it just like it is,” Kei said. “You won’t have to do anything. I’ll clean it and paint it myself.”

  “What about the carpeting? It’s threadbare in spots.”

  “Anna was using some throw rugs, if I remember correctly. I’ll just do the same.”

  Mrs. McFadden looked at Mr. McFadden. He shrugged. “Give us a couple of days to think about it,” he said. “And of course we’ll need you to fill out an application.”

  “My offer is for today only,” Kei said. “I need the place now.”

  “We haven’t even told you how much it is,” Mrs. McFadden said.

  “There’s a starting price on your sign out front. Since it’s a one bedroom, I just figured—”

  “That price is for a studio. The one-bedroom units are two hundred dollars a month more.”

  Kei did the math in his head. It was going to be tight, but manageable.

  “I’ll take it,” he said. “But it has to be today.”

  Mrs. McFadden looked at Mr. McFadden again. He shrugged again. “Come on in,” he said. “I’ll print out a lease.”

  Kei signed all the paperwork, and then he drove to the hardware store and had an extra key made. While he was there, he bought some plastic trash bags and a few other things. When he got back to the complex, he slid his new gun into the right front pocket of his jeans, locked himself into his new apartment and started picking up some of the stuff the movers had left behind. Soda cans, candy wrappers, potato chip bags. There was part of a pizza box in one corner, white cardboard with the words IT’S PIPING HOT! printed in bold red letters above a cartoon image of a fat man in an apron. Kei folded it and stuffed it into the trash bag.

  Someone knocked on the door. Kei looked through the peephole. It was his next door neighbor, the guy he’d talked to about Anna. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

  Kei opened the door.

  “Got a light?” the guy said.

  “Maybe.”

  Kei patted his pockets, reached in and pulled out the book of matches Desmond had written the phone number on. He struck one, cupped his hands around it, held it up so the guy could reach the flame with the tip of his cigarette.

  “Thanks,” the guy said. “My lighter finally gave out. Keep forgetting to buy a new one.”

  “No problem.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have an extra book of matches, would you? I’ve had a few beers, and I probably shouldn’t be driving anywhere right now.”

  “You can have these,” Kei said.

  He tore off the part of the cover where the phone number had been written, handed the matches to the guy.

  “Thanks. Appreciate it. My name’s Jack, by the way. Looks like we’re going to be neighbors, huh?”

  Kei shook Jack’s hand.

  “I’m Kei,” he said. “Yeah, I’m kind of busy right now, but maybe we can have a beer sometime.”

  “Sounds good. Well, I’ll let you get back to work. Thanks again for the matches.”

  “Okay. See you later, Jack.”

  Kei closed the door. He tore the top of the matchbook cover into little pieces, dropped all the pieces into the trash bag. He looked around. The floors were free of debris now, but they still needed to be properly cleaned. Kei wondered if the McFaddens would loan him a mop and a vacuum. He was about to walk downstairs and ask when his cell phone trilled.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Kei. It’s
Ron Filmore.”

  Kei’s heart did a little flip-flop in the center of his chest.

  “I meant to call you,” Kei said. “I’m really sorry about what happened yesterday.”

  “It took me a while to find your number. I thought I would give you a chance to explain before I notify the authorities.”

  Kei told him about everything that had been going on.

  “It’s true that I lost my license a couple of years ago,” he said. “And I absolutely should not have been there posing as a doctor. But I really didn’t know what else to do. I needed to find the elderly gentleman I’d seen at the hospital. I still need to find him. I can assure you that I never touched a patient, and I never wrote any orders or anything. I just need to find the old man.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I think I know who you’re talking about,” Ron said.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. But you have to promise to never mention my name if you get into any trouble over all this.”

  “Sure. I promise.”

  “His name is Brighton Penworth. He was a neuroscientist at the University of Florida. He did research, mostly, but he taught some classes too. He was one of the patients I was seeing there at the nursing home.”

  “The one we were at yesterday?”

  “Yeah. There’s a separate wing for the residents with severe dementia. If you had confided in me instead of pushing me out of the way, I could have taken you in to see him for a few minutes.”

  “Sorry. I panicked. Is there any way we could go back over there today?”

  “We could go back over there,” Ron said. “But I’m afraid it wouldn’t do you any good.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  There was another long pause. Kei heard a click, and for a second he thought that Ron had hung up on him. But that wasn’t the case. In fact, the click hadn’t even come from the phone.

  It had come from the deadbolt on the door.

  11

  Kei dropped the phone and reached for his pistol.

  But as it turned out, he didn’t need it.

  Mr. McFadden stood there in the doorway with a sheet of copy paper in his hand.